flooding | BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye

There’s nothing like a mountain fog. It’s hard to put it into words. I remember when I was a kid growing up in Brevard, N.C., I loved foggy mornings. Waiting at the bus stop, I felt like the sky had fallen on me, soft and cool and protective. Later, as a grown-up navigating mountain roads in the fog, I still felt that mystical sense of otherworldliness.

For the past few days, I’ve spent a lot of time poring over pictures of flattened, flooded towns and videos of raging, red rivers full of debris. It’s hard for me to believe this is what’s left of some of the beautiful mountains where I grew up. I’ve lived on the eastern side of the state long enough to know there’s probably more saltwater in my veins than the red clay of the mountains now, but at times like this, I know there’s no denying it.

The coast may have been my destiny, but the mountains are my origin.

I haven’t been back in nearly two years. My mother passed away in February 2023 and I went back for her funeral. After that, my father moved down to Charlotte to be with my uncle and my older brother, and my mountains were just two hours too far to go.

I wonder how it became this hard to take time to get somewhere that’s still important to me.

I heard today that Interstate 40 Westbound was closed at Statesville to stop people wanting to get into the mountains—searching for friends and family, most likely, but maybe just curious. Maybe people like me who suddenly realized that the mountains of their origin might not always be there. The towns we grew up in can be wiped off the earth’s slate.

I’ve heard that Brevard survived, for the most part, in spite of being walloped with 30 inches of rain. But I’ve seen nothing to support that. There’s a webcam in downtown Brevard that is currently offline. I check it daily, sometimes hourly. I know it will likely be days or weeks before it comes back online, if it even survived, but still. It would be reassuring to see.

So little communication is possible, even with my brother and his family who still live there. I’ve gotten a few texts. He managed one phone call to my father.

I feel like the entirety of the North Carolina mountains is shrouded in fog now, but unlike the fog of my childhood, this is not protective, it’s a reminder. Nothing is permanent. Everything can be damaged or taken away.

the sky falls on us

while you, lost mountain girl,

roam the lonely coast

Better days.

I haven’t updated this blog in almost a week. And the past two weeks have been the most emotionally tumultuous I’ve ever experienced.

During these two weeks, we’ve prepared for what looked to be a historic storm. We took all the accumulated junk from outside and got it inside our house or tied down somewhere on the exterior. Lawnmowers, barbecue grills, trash cans, outdoor furniture—our outdoor furniture is now in our downstairs, cobwebs and all.

While my husband and son concentrated on that, I tried to figure out what was most precious to me. What couldn’t be replaced if we left and our house was flooded or the roof ripped off. If you’ve never had to do this, it’s emotionally exhausting. Because nothing you own can ever really be replaced. The sofa the cats clawed, the coffee table the kids ruined by never using coasters, the half-broken rocking chair you nursed your daughter in when she came home from the hospital eleven years ago—you can get newer and better and less broken, but you have these things still because you actually love your animals and your kids and the memories make the faults more beautiful.

We wound up packing our kids, our dogs, our cats, our bearded dragon, some photo albums, my mother’s charm bracelet, a necklace and earrings my son saved up to give me for my birthday when he was ten and a few other odds and ends into our two cars, finally, and trekking to an Airbnb in Charlotte. And then the anxious waiting began.

In the midst of it, I found I couldn’t even finish a sentence. I would start to speak and drift off mid-thought. My favorite pair of glasses (the only ones I brought) broke in half. The dogs don’t like being confined, and I’m constantly worried the cats are going to break or claw something. There’s a stray cat outside our Airbnb who has fleas and I’m worried about my animals getting them. I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee since I left home. And none of it matters.

The worst was hearing of friends waiting for rescue.

The best was when my oldest texted me from his college dorm. I’m so glad you guys left.

Our house made it. We’re some of the lucky ones.

My husband went back home a few days ago, but the kids and I remain in self-imposed exile. We’re watching news and trying to grasp that this is our home. Boats and docks that were peacefully moored when we left are no longer there. Some have been washed out to sea. Some sank. Some are now on dry land. Hundreds of people were rescued from attics and rooftops as they saw their homes flooded, their belongings and memories ripped away.

And in the midst of it, there are rainbows. I hear of neighbors collecting for those who lost everything, businesses giving food to first responders and power company linemen, neighbors organizing to help each other clean up, volunteers at the shelters which remain open while those who lost all look for permanent lodging. These are the lights in the darkness.

We want to go home more than anything, but our power is still out and my husband says stay. At least until the weekend. By some miracle of hard work, our city managed to protect the water so we do not have to boil it, but the sewage pumping stations were flooded and are in the process of being restored.

I know the work will be long when we get back, but I’m eager to begin it, whether it’s volunteering to help others, throwing spoiled food out of our refrigerator, picking up branches or running the book fair I had to leave behind at our school. No matter what, I’m happy I’m still here to do it.